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by Christine Bongers

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Cracker of a read with kick-ass half-breed heroine Verity Fassbinder protecting the humans of Brisbane from the unseen Weyrd that dwell amongst us. Not sure if it's destined for cult or classic status, but it's smart, sassy and wickedly funny and I can't wait for the next in the triology.

We were higher than the clouds, higher than non-pressurised aircraft are permitted to fly (in the US, cabin altitude of airliners can climb no higher than 8,000 feet).

At 10,000 feet, human beings can experience the early signs of hypoxia, with lightheadedness, dizziness, reduced vision, and euphoria.

That might explain our exhilaration when we stood on the summit that the ancient Hawaiians called Haleakala, the house of the sun, where the demi-God Maui snared the sun and forced it to slow its journey across the skies. In our excitement we ran down the sliding sands trail into the cinder cone of the dormant volcano, not realising that fifteen minutes down meant two or three times as long, trudging back up, huffing and puffing like emphysemic geriatrics.

High altitude makes me feel like an old woman. On one trek in the Cusco highlands, the village we were visiting sent kids out to scout for us because we were taking so long to get there. So embarrassing!